Sol Survivors | Book 2 | Nashville Nightmare

by Benton, Ken

  Bert watched as Squeaky and Lanny exchanged glances.

  “Well here’s the thing,” Squeaky replied. “We can help you get to Kansas, but we don’t have any diesel.”

  The driver tilted his head. “I don’t understand. The map for the voucher says you have it here.”

  “We don’t,” Squeaky repeated. “Not currently.”

  “When do you expect to get some?”

  Squeaky shook his head. “Don’t know. Maybe next week, maybe next month.”

  “Well then why did you tell me to pull up to this pump?”

  The blonde kid in the passenger seat began rustling in the back seat for something. Bert took the opportunity to step out of the Celica, holding the shotgun. When Lanny frowned at him, he rested it on his shoulder.

  “So we can work out a trade,” Squeaky said to the driver. “This car has a full tank and will get you to Kansas, and then to Idaho when you find some more gas.” He held his palm out at the Celica. “It gets 35 miles per gallon highway and has a 480-mile range on a tank.”

  The driver eyed the car and acted as if he were about to scoff—until he saw the shotgun on Bert’s shoulder.

  “This old yellow clunker doesn’t look like a fair trade for the truck to me,” the driver replied. “Not straight up, anyway. And what’s the shotgun for?”

  Lanny now shot Bert a stern, disapproving stare.

  “Maybe we’ll throw it in on the deal, then,” Bert said. He reopened the door of the Celica, set the shotgun inside, and closed it. But his action failed to elicit any approval in Lanny’s eyes.

  “Well,” the driver said stepping forward, “that does make it a little more interesting. It runs good?”

  “Like a top,” Squeaky replied. “I overhauled the engine myself.”

  “How are the tires?”

  “Good tires. They’re not new, but they are radials, not retreads, and not balding. They’ve been rotated and have about a quarter inch of tread, plus there is a full size spare. They will easily get you to Idaho, and back again.”

  “You mind if I check the fluids?”

  “Not at all. Go for it.”

  The driver went back into the cab of the truck and came out with a rag. Bert leaned in and popped the hood for him. The driver checked the oil, had Bert start the car to check the transmission fluid, had him turn it off again, and then felt all the belts and hoses. It looked like the kids were going to do this the easy way.

  The curly-haired driver then went by Bert to sit in the driver’s seat a minute and touch everything. He also inspected the shotgun in a manner that suggested he was familiar with firearms, which caused Bert to feel nervous for a brief moment, before the kid slipped it into the back seat.

  “It’s an okay car,” he said walking back to the truck.

  “So we have a deal then,” Squeaky said.

  Before the driver answered, a pistol appeared in his hand out of nowhere. But he didn’t point it at anyone.

  “No,” he said. “No deal. I’ll take my voucher back, please.”

  Ned reached his hand into his pants, at which point the kid’s pistol pointed at him, freezing him. Bert saw Squeaky’s hand make the same move to the inside of his sports jacket, also halted by the kid’s gun barrel moving to bear on him. Bert chose that moment to scramble back in the Celica for the shotgun. But he was barely inside when he heard the other kid yell, causing him to look up. The passenger had finally gotten out—and was holding a pistol-grip shotgun on him.

  The dark-haired kid retook the wheel of the truck, where he could no longer keep everyone covered while he restarted it and threw it in reverse—which he did with an impressive precision. The blonde kid stayed outside, alternating now between pointing his weapon at Ned and Squeaky. Lanny made no threatening move, other than flicking his cigarette butt off to the side.

  The blonde kid had stopped paying attention to Bert. Or so Bert thought. When Bert turned at an opportune moment to grab the shotgun from the back seat, the first blast from the short shotgun came—right through the driver’s side window and seat headrest, spraying him with auto glass.

  Two more blasts from the same weapon quickly followed, but not at the car. The sound of a pistol firing joined the music, from the direction of the truck.

  Bert decided to stay down.

  Chapter Six

  “There’s two of them blocking the road!” Mick’s voice yelled. But Sammy already saw them and began flipping a U-turn before his words completed.

  Gunshots fired from pistols held by two others still near the pumps. Sammy floored it, planning to go around the long way behind the station again, the way they came in—but the other two now stood blocking that path as well.

  “Sammy!”

  “I see them! Dammit, didn’t we hit any of those freaking assholes?” Sammy was forced to head straight west and find another road.

  “I think I did,” Mick answered. “Pretty sure I winged the one in the middle, or at least nicked him. That blunderbuss can’t hit the side of a barn from fifteen yards. Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  But when Sammy checked the rear view mirror, he got his answer. The Celica peeled out of the station in pursuit. The passenger seat was now occupied in addition to the driver’s.

  “We need to get on the interstate,” Sammy said. “They know all the side roads around here. We don’t.”

  Mick pointed. “There’s an onramp. Crap, west. Gotta be an eastbound ramp on the other side of the bridge.”

  “Yeah…” Sammy eyed the Celica in the mirror gaining on them and decided to take the onramp.

  “This is west!” Mick shouted.

  “No choice. Take the pistol, Mick. You’re a good shot. It’s best if you make them aware of that fact before they get too close.”

  “And before we get too close to the city,” Mick grumbled picking the revolver up from the cup holder. He unbuckled his seatbelt and rolled his window down as Sammy transitioned onto the I-40 west.

  “Careful man,” Sammy said as Mick leaned outside.

  Sammy constantly glanced between the road, the mirrors, and Mick. The Celica driver saw Mick’s head and arms come out the window and reacted, moving to the left side behind the truck. The reaction slowed him some, but only briefly before continuing to accelerate. Sammy knew he could not outrun them. That car had a top speed of at least twenty miles an hour faster than Archer’s truck, and could get to quicker. Sammy checked his speedometer and saw he was already approaching 90.

  The shoulder ahead was blocked with a stalled vehicle. That looked like a good opportunity. Sammy moved on to the shoulder and drove straight at it. The small debris in this “lane” wouldn’t bother these truck tires, but it might bother the Celica’s.

  “I still can’t get them!” Mick yelled.

  Sammy saw that the Celica had also moved to the shoulder, as expected.

  “Hold on!” Sammy said.

  He swerved back into the fast lane, not as close to the stalled car ahead as he would like, but at this speed it was best to leave extra margin for error.

  The Celica, seeing the obstruction, also swerved back, overcorrecting halfway into the next lane just as Sammy hoped.

  But Mick didn’t get a shot off.

  Shaking his head, Sammy moved back onto the shoulder as soon as they passed the stalled car, despite there being larger pieces of debris ahead. It may be their last good chance. A loud clunk sounded under the truck carriage as he ran over a tire tread.

  The chase car had no option now but to be to the right of them, in the fast lane, for several critical seconds. Sammy eased off the gas in an effort to help Mick.

  This time Mick got two shots off, about two seconds apart. Something about them sounded well-placed to Sammy.

  Mick reappeared in the passenger seat and reached behind for the backpack in the extra cab.

  Sammy moved into the fast lane to avoid a bumper on the shoulder. He checked the mirror. The passenger side of the Celica’s windshield was now
spider-webbed, and it had rapidly slowed.

  Sammy hit the brakes.

  “Did you get the passenger?” Sammy asked.

  “Might have,” Mick replied reloading the revolver.

  Sammy nodded. “Yeah. By the way they’ve slowed, I think you might have. Good job.”

  “Sammy, what now? That’s the Nashville airport on the left. Or at least it was six weeks ago.”

  “Hopefully, he’ll give up the chase.”

  “We could stop and shoot it out with him,” Mick suggested.

  “How sure are you that you hit the passenger?”

  “Zero.”

  “Well,” Sammy said, “if you didn’t, and I were them, I would act like you did. As you discovered, that Shockwave is a poor weapon in a real shootout. So if there are two of them still, it’ll be one .38 revolver with limited ammo against semi-auto pistols of larger caliber and a real shotgun. I can get off at the next off-ramp and find a way back onto the westbound side, but if they have walkie-talkies they could arrange an ambush that way. I’d rather go north or south.”

  “Make up your mind fast. Here’s the 155.”

  Sammy pointed at it. “The transition looks totally blocked.”

  “I see it, shit. The I-24 is only another couple of miles. But … why don’t you slow to a crawl and see what they do?”

  “You’re really spoiling for that gunfight, aren’t you?”

  “It’s a calculated risk.”

  Sammy thought for a second. “If we go north on I-24, we can probably make it to one of the military-voucher truck stops. Might be able to continue with the trip and find a way to trade for the rest of the gas we need.”

  “Unless they keep following us,” Mick replied. “In which case we need to deal with them sooner or later. That car does have a full tank. I vote for sooner, while my adrenaline is still high. Not to mention the fact the 24-North goes right through the heart of the city. This is a hell of a thing to ask of a Supreme Court clerk.”

  “All right. We’ll try it your way.” Sammy took his foot off the gas.

  The Celica wasn’t prepared for it and quickly gained on them—until Mick stuck his head out the window, whereupon it slowed again.

  “Can you see the passenger?” Sammy asked.

  “No. Can’t see through the cracked glass. Can you?”

  Sammy checked the mirror. “No.”

  He decided to put light pressure on the brake to slow even more. The Celica was ready this time and did the same, keeping the fifty yards of distance between them.

  “Should I stop?” Sammy asked. They were now only doing thirty.

  No answer from the preacher of decisiveness.

  Sammy went ahead and slowed to about 15 miles per hour.

  That’s when the Celica floored it.

  The driver timed it well. He caught Sammy off-guard by a second. That, and the fact the truck could never match its acceleration, demanded a new strategic reaction—and fast. The bad guys were on the shoulder now, attempting to come around Sammy’s side. In a split second Sammy had to decide whether to cut them off and force them back to Mick’s side again. Sammy’s head would be a visible target, at least briefly, if he veered left at all. That’s probably what they wanted.

  Sammy did something different. He turned to angle himself across the lanes, keeping the pursuer as directly behind him as he could. Then, just before reaching the slow lane, he abruptly swung back in the opposite direction, to take the chase the wrong way on the interstate. The truck careened and Mick had to grasp the inside handle to stay in his seat.

  No shots fired from the enemy, but they were able to copy the maneuver, throwing the car into a slide in order to do so. Mick climbed halfway out the window again.

  Sammy knew he couldn’t keep going this direction. There would not be any exit opportunities at high speed, and there could be a trap back this way, or an additional pursuer coming.

  So he waited for the Celica to gain on him again and repeated the angled U-turn.

  This time shots fired. One of them came from Mick, immediately followed by a loud pop of a different octave.

  “Stay straight!” Mick said coming back in from the open window.

  “You got him?”

  “Got their front tire.”

  Sammy checked the mirror in time to see the Celica fishtailing out of control. The chase ended when its rear end hit the wall.

  Sammy slammed the brake pedal and came to a stop. He grabbed the blunderbuss and stepped out of the truck.

  The Celica, now 150 yards behind, had come to a rest in a perpendicular position. Its front end partially blocked the fast lane, minus one tire. Its rear end was dented up, but the vehicle still appeared drivable.

  The driver came out.

  He was the only one who came out. Sammy recognized him as the one with the squeaky voice. The shotgun that had “been thrown in on the deal” was cradled across his chest. Sammy had briefly considered unloading it when he inspected it. There was no going back that way without more shooting.

  “Sammy, let’s get out of here,” Mick’s voice said next to him.

  Sammy turned to Mick. “Which way?”

  “Not that way.” Mick motioned at the disabled Celica with the revolver. “North or south I guess, like you said.”

  “We could work up a high speed and try to whoosh past him,” Sammy suggested.

  “And end up stranded with him, if he gets our tires.”

  “Yeah,” Sammy said. “Just bringing up an option.”

  The two of them got back in the truck and continued west for another mile, whereupon Sammy decided to take Interstate 24 North. It wasn’t a difficult decision, because every other option at the large highway interchange appeared forebodingly clogged by abandoned vehicles—many of which had become nothing more than the charred and rusted remains of car fires. By contrast, the I-24 North beckoned as a welcoming escape tube.

  Either that or a piece of cheese in a giant mousetrap.

  Neither Sammy nor Mick said anything as they approached the bridge to the Cumberland River. Sammy could feel the tension from his friend, and could also feel him feeling the tension back from Sammy.

  That’s when they heard the next gunshot. Suddenly the front of the truck shook violently.

  “Where’d it come from?” Sammy shouted.

  Mick ducked, popped his head up, peeped around, ducked, and repeated the motion.

  Another shot fired, followed by the sound of a tire exploding. Sammy was pretty sure it came from his left. Sure enough, the truck tilted strongly to that side.

  “They shot our tires out on my side, dammit!” Sammy said.

  Mick looked at him not with horror, but with an expression of resignation, as if conceding to impending doom.

  Sammy stopped, threw the tuck in reverse, turned his head, and hit the gas.

  But a new moving vehicle, out of nowhere, now came up on his tail. This one appeared to be a bobtail truck. The lone driver resembled someone in a Halloween costume, like a ghost-skeleton with a wig, in the brief glimpse Sammy saw of him. There was no question of his intentions by the way he drove directly at them.

  Sammy stopped and shifted forward gear again—just as the truck smashed them from behind. Sammy tried to turn away from it, and accelerated the best he could up the incline of the bridge, but the black pickup shook violently with blown tire treads flapping on the undercarriage.

  The next thing Sammy knew the big truck was alongside him, pushing them to the side. Sammy found himself jammed up against the four-foot high wall on the shoulder.

  He brought Archer’s pickup to a full stop. The bobtail truck made a final statement slamming the front of the pickup into the wall.

  “Get out!” Sammy said as he stretched to grab the backpack.

  “There’s a wall and a river here!” Mick replied looking out the window. But he nevertheless climbed out without waiting for a reply.

  Sammy met him on top of the short wall in another six seconds, h
olding the Mossberg Shockwave in one hand and the backpack in the other. There they stood for an eternal moment. The driver of the bobtail truck did not show himself yet, nor did his cohort who shot their tires. It seemed a bad idea to wait for them to do so.

  Directly below them the Cumberland River gently flowed westward.

  “That looks deep enough,” Sammy said. “Even if it’s a long ways down.”

  “Yep.” Mick’s eyes met his. “On three?”

  “On one.” Sammy stepped off the wall.

  Chapter Seven

  “You better sleep while you can,” a low unexpected voice said.

  Ricky released the curtain he’d been holding cracked open and turned to the voice. His eyes took a moment to adjust.

  “Unless they put you on the wrong shift?” the voice asked. “In which case you better tell them now. Not that I don’t admire your gall. But you won’t be the first diurnal who tried that gag here. Doesn’t sit well with the court officers. They are going to force you to go out at night, you know. The guards seem to get a kick out it, too.”

  “I know,” Ricky answered. He could now start to see the man talking to him—a few years younger than his dad, probably in his early forties, wearing a British-style denim cap.

  “Smoke?” the man offered, extending a package of cigarettes. Ricky smiled and glanced beyond the partially-open doorway behind him. Everyone else appeared to be sleeping in their assigned cots.

  “I don’t have anything to trade,” Ricky said.

  “Conversation will do.” His hand remained frozen in place.

  “You can have that for free. Thanks, but I don’t smoke.”

  The man shrugged and lit his cigarette. “So you don’t smoke, but are hanging out in the smoking room during your sleep time. You’re not afraid of the night air, but don’t mind staring out into the afternoon sunlight. You’re not one of them, are you?”

  “Them?”

  “I don’t mean to insult you if you are. But you don’t strike me as one. I don’t know, something about the way you’re dressed and how you talk. If I had to guess, I’d say you appear to be a young adult who actually has his act together.”